


steady

by fadewords



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: & there's a few lil nott n caleb moments here also but pRIMARILy, Alcohol, Fluff, Gen, Hot Chocolate, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Nott Has PTSD, Nott/Being Loved And Cared For, also nott & jester are adhd so jot that down;;, far too many em dashes & parentheses as usual but what can u do, i don't delve into it a Lot here so 'm not givin those individual tags BUT, is a thing., primarily is nott n jester, some references to dissociation & internalized racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 12:23:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16702486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadewords/pseuds/fadewords
Summary: nott has a nightmare. enter jester.(jester has a dream, too. enter nott.)





	steady

Nott woke paralyzed, air caught like knives in her throat.

One beat. (Bricks on her chest, limbs pinned to the mattress—)

Two. (Silence ringing sharp and even through the pounding in her ears—)

Three. (Creeping presence in the dark, swelling, swelling—)

Four. (A steady heartbeat, one-two, one-two.)

Nott sucked in a breath, too loud in the dark, almost a gasp—and then another, quieter, and another, shuddery. And another.

She twitched her fingers, just to prove she could. Found them twisted in Caleb’s shirt, and gripped it tighter for a long moment, focusing on the thick fabric, the grubby feel of it on her palms.

Then she made herself let go, and ball her hands into fists, and breathe some more. Tried to match the rise and fall of Caleb’s chest, long and slow, but. Short and shallow kept getting in the way, her stupid cornered rat of a heart pulling her lungs along for the ride.

She tried closing her eyes, drifting back to sleep, but every time she did—

_Her clanmates staring at her across the Leaky Tap._

_The torturer’s eyes crinkling yellow at Caleb, teeth splayed in a spiny, rotting, snaggletooth smile. (Falling blank and flat on Nott.)_

_Beau’s hand clasped around a hunter’s, callused brown on rough, scarred green, inches from the tabletop and straining. (Never once shifting to snatch her wrist, though his brittle fingers twitched, and twitched, and twitched.)_

_Jester showing the tanner her sketchbook. (The tanner touching the pages, running her fingers all over the ink, smearing it in places it should already have dried.)_

_Fjord pulling out a chair for an elder. (The elder watching his coin purse, and his stance, and his jugular—and sitting in the chair, wordless, hands in their lap.)_

_Yasha handing a child a dead rat. (The child biting its head clean off, and watching her unblinking, without thanks and without reaching for the learner’s knife sheathed in their leather-strip belt.)_

_Molly taking a raid-leader by the hand, pressing a kiss to weathered, bloody knuckles. (The raid-leader allowing it, limp and watching, watching.)_

_Herself on a stool, feet dangling, gripping an empty, grimy glass, watching it all unfold._

Nott opened her eyes. Curled her hands tighter, and tighter, and tighter—and then uncurled them. Felt the sweat between her fingers, chill and slick, and on the palms of her hands, too, settling, stinging, in the gouges her claws had left.

She wiped her hands on her front, then pressed them hard to her eyes. Then harder, until she couldn’t see the deep eye-crinkles or the thin twitching fingers or the purple-red smeared ink or the hairy limp hands or the etchings on the knife or the blood on Molly’s lips or—any of the rest. Until she found it drowned in blurry haze and pulsing gold sparks.

Then she exhaled, shuddery, slow. (That had been. That had.) She dragged in another breath. (Too loud, and too cold, she could feel it on every one of her teeth, chilling them down to the roots. She breathed through her nose instead, uncomfortably aware of how poorly they all fit in her mouth, of the snaggletooth threatening to poke down over her lip on the left side, just like—)

Nott rolled away from Caleb and sat up.

Drew her knees to her chest. Wrapped her arms around them. Sat. Shivered, a little, distantly aware of her clothes gone clammy and clinging, and trying very hard to ignore the prickling on the back of her neck and all up her arms.

Stupid.

Just a dream. Really obviously just a dream. There was no—her clan would never—and of course the _group_ would never—and hells, even if they did _she_ would never—never just. Just sit there and let all that—that—happen, like that. (Would—?)

No. No. Of course not.

(Right…?)

She shook her head roughly. She should’ve known. Stupid, impossible, _stupid_.

And yet.

Nott dug her claws into her legs, pricking the skin through the wrappings, and breathed.

They would never come to the Leaky Tap. (Zadash was too heavily guarded.) They’d never come to the Leaky Tap. (Her group might be full of weirdos and assholes but even _they_ wouldn’t be so _stupid_ as to hang with _actual goblins_.) They’d never come here. (They had no idea she was even—) They’d never— (Unless—)

Nott dug her claws deeper into her legs, but that didn’t make them feel any more attached to her body, so she yanked her hands away and uncurled and moved.

(A drink. She could really use a drink.)

(It had nothing at all to do with wanting to see, to count heads, peer in all the corners, make sure—nothing at all to do with that and _everything_ to do with the fact that she could really really really use a stiff fucking drink, right now, before she ran out and stole something that got her stabbed in the face. And the fact she had a perfectly good flask at her side and didn’t strictly need to get out of bed to drink was completely irrelevant. Sometimes a girl wanted something a little different, that was all.)

Slid down off the bed, landing quiet, quiet, moving to the door, silent as a mouse and silenter—silent as a—a wood-louse, even. (Musn’t wake Caleb.)

(He seemed, for once, to be sleeping so well, so peacefully. And that was so rare, for him. So rare. She wasn’t going to be the one to fuck it up.)

(Nott fucked up a great many things, and always had, and probably always would—but _damned_ if Caleb was going to be one of them.)

So she crept out silent as a wood-louse, and slipped the door open and shut it behind her with only the faintest click, and then glanced up and down the hall.

Empty.

She slunk down it, one shoulder to the wall and one ear angled back, listening. (No stirring from their room, or from any of the others, so far as she could tell. So unless everyone else was as quiet as her—)

She reached the stairs and shuffled down (they always creaked a bit when she went slow), and paused three steps from the bottom. Pulled her cloak tighter about herself, fixed her mask on properly, tugged her sleeves down over her hands, took a long swig from her flask. And then held very still, listening.

Faint clinking. Footsteps.

Others, then. Awake. Probably drinking. Maybe wandering.

Closed her eyes and listened harder, trying to make out voices. But there were none, only teeth and the torturer’s birthmark floating sharp in her mind’s eye, so she opened her eyes again and slipped down the last few steps and into the tavern proper.

Instantly, she locked onto three figures. The barkeep, wiping out a few dirty glasses. A very large weirdo, nursing a beer in the corner. And, inexplicably, Jester, sitting at the bar with what had to be a very, _very_ stale donut.

(No goblins.)

Nott stilled.

Shifted her weight, ready to dart featherlight all the way back up to the room and Caleb and bed—there was no reason to be down here, really, who needed variety, really, when she had a magic flask—and there were no goblins, anyway, of _course_ there were no goblins, she’d known that going into it, of course she’d known, impossible—and she didn’t, she hadn’t, she’d meant to get good and drunk, was the thing, not hang with anyone—and, and it would be so easy, to head back up, it would be so, _so_ easy, Jester was facing away from her, mostly, and hadn’t seen her, and wouldn’t see her, would never even hear her—

But Jester was also in the middle of tearing a little piece off of her donut and dropping it to a pile on the counter. And another. And another.

Nott watched. Noted the pile. The odd set of Jester’s shoulders. The stillness of her tail. The empty space round her. (Clues, the lot of them. A mystery in need of solving.)

So she shuffled forward, letting her feet scrape on the floor, letting her nails clack, her pockets jingle at her side, just a bit. (Forcibly ignored the prickling between her shoulders, as she did.)

(It was fine. It was fine. She was _trying_ to be noticed, it was fine. And it was only Jester, anyway.)

(Well. And some others, too, but Jester could beat them up, probably, and Nott was very fast besides, and—)

Jester tilted her head, then swiveled round, still clutching the donut. Her eyes widened, and a grin spread like a wildfire across her face. (Nott didn’t trust it. Too quick, and not quite crinkly enough around the eyes.) "Oh, hello Nott!”

"Hi!” Nott cleared the distance between them in two seconds flat and clambered up on the stool beside her. (Shifted til her feet no longer touched the night-chilled wood, and didn’t think of cold cavern floors.)

"I thought you went to bed?”

"I thought _you_ went to bed.”

Jester shrugged. And maybe Nott was imagining the small hunch to her shoulders, now, but then again maybe she wasn’t. "Oh, well, you know,” she said. "I got bored. And I wanted a drink! So!”

And yet, not a glass in sight. Not so much as a single drop of milk on the countertop to indicate there might have been one earlier—only a small pile of donut shreds that Jester pressed to a pancake under her free hand.

"Yeah, me too.” Nott motioned to the barkeep. (Pretended it didn’t feel like using mage hand more than her actual hand.) "Gimme whatever. And some milk for my friend here!”

A nod, and then a few moments later, a massive glass of milk and another of something or other brown, set down between them so sudden and sharp Nott couldn’t entirely hold back the flinch.

"Thanks,” she muttered, when it passed and the tension dwindled back to crawling cold. She shoved some coins across the counter, waited for them to be scooped up, and then lowered her mask to drink.

When she surfaced, halfway down the glass but still with icy beetles between her shoulders, there was Jester, looking a little bit funny. Sort of lost, with a little downturn to one side of her mouth and a faint faraway to her eyes. (A bit like Caleb’s, when he went sideways, but not quite as gray.)

That wouldn’t do.

Nott prodded her arm. (Stared at Jester’s faraway eyes instead of the spot where green met blue.) "Earth to Jester,” she said. "Earth to Jester. The milk won’t drink itself, y’know!”

"Oh!” Jester blinked, and there she was again, back with another wildfire grin. "Thank you, Nott!” She picked up the glass, took a sip, and hummed.

"That good, huh?”

"Mhm! The best!”

Nott searched her face a moment, then nodded. "Good.”

She drank some more from her own glass. Dribbled a little down her chin, and frowned at herself. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and then frowned at that, too. (At her stupid, trembling fingers, and the rough, grimy feel of their unbandaged places against her lips.)

She resisted the urge to re-scrub her mouth with her cloak, and busied herself drumming her fingers on the tabletop instead, tap-tap-tapping quick and quiet, all finger-pads, no blunted claws. Caught sight of the light green line below the final knuckle on her right index finger, and stopped. (Left over from the time she’d apprenticed with the hunters and nearly cut off her own finger instead of killing a really fat rabbit—she hadn’t been so good with a blade, then.)

She looked away, and didn’t think of similar, fainter scars on similarly green (though more capable, always more capable) hands. (Didn’t think of Beau’s clasping them.)

Another long drink, and then she let words tumble out every which way, about the day before and about what funny thing Caleb had said and what trinkets she’d gotten her hands on, and more, watching all the while, waiting for the right ones to brush off the rest of that faraway, bring the spark back to her eyes, solve the mystery.

She stuck her hand deep in one of her pockets, talking, talking, and traced the ridges of her favorite gold piece—favorite for the little drop of polish on one side, so handy for picking at and smoothing over with her thumb and holding up to the light and watching it shimmer-flash three different colors. (A gift from Molly, once upon a time. Well. She said gift. Really more of a prize; she’d won a bet.)

As her words started running dry, Nott considered, briefly, pulling it out and admiring the three-purpled shimmer. But then she’d have to see her hands again, and wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on Jester, or the weirdo with the beer, or the stairs, or even the door—so she didn’t. Just ran her thumb over the polish spot instead, over and over and over, and imagined it leaving shimmer-dust on her skin. (It wouldn’t, of course, it never did, but having shiny purple fingers instead of dull green ones sounded nice, so she imagined it anyway, idly, as she fidgeted and drank and fidgeted some more, and thought of what else to babble about.)

"Did you want some?”

Nott jumped. "What?” She was offering—her milk, maybe? "No, no thanks, I've still got—” She glanced down at her glass and found it empty. "Well, I've still got my flask. And I don’t like milk anyway, it’s boring.”

"I meant the donut, silly.” Jester rolled her eyes, but ruined the effect by grinning in a way that almost crinkled her eyes right. "But, but! That gives me a _really good_ idea!”

“...Donut milk?” she said, mostly to be funny.

"No, not _donut milk_!” Jester shook her head. "I’ve tried that and it’s _horrible_. Very soggy. No, no, I meant—” She twisted a little in her seat, gone abruptly very wiggly in a way that made Nott smile but also set her teeth a little on edge. "Hang on a minute!”

And she hopped off her stool and ran over to the other end of the bar and had a brief, whispered conversation with the barkeep. For a moment her face fell, but then she whispered more and handed over a small bundle, and some coin, and the barkeep nodded and Jester grinned and skipped back over.

Nott raised an eyebrow. There was the spark, and that was good, but also. "What was that about?”

"You’ll _see_.”

Nott hoped it wasn’t just milk with a silly straw. (Milk really was boring.) "Tell me!”

"Nope!”

"C’mon!”

"Noooo. It’s a _surprise_!”

Some minutes and a bit of banter later, two more glasses placed in front of them. No silly straws.

Nott waited for the barkeep to wander off again, then reached for one.

"Careful, it’s hot!”

She froze with her fingers inches from it. "Is it?”

"It better be.” Jester pulled one over and stuck her index finger in. “...Yep! Very hot!” She pulled her finger back out and shook it. "Better blow on it first.”

Nott didn’t bother pointing out that she knew very well to blow on hot drinks. Jester hadn’t meant it that way, and it’d only wipe the hard-earned grin off her face if Nott snapped. So instead she nodded, and pulled the drink closer carefully, with just her fingertips, and peered at it.

It was brown. Brown and steaming, with a thin layer of foam. And sweet-smelling, too. Not booze, then. (She squashed disappointment. Of _course_ it wasn’t booze. Jester had got one for herself, too, and she didn’t drink.)

"Don’t just stare at it! Try it!”

Nott blew on the weird drink, watching the ripples go, for a good minute, and then took a sip.

Very hot, yes, but not scalding. And yes, definitely sweet. Almost _too_ sweet, if there was such a thing. But nice. (Very nice.)

Nott took another sip. Warmth bloomed where it settled in her stomach.

"You like it?”

"Yeah. But uh, what—”

"It’s hot cocoa!” Jester beamed. "It’s made with milk and chocolate and lots of sugar and it’s _supposed_ to have marshmallows too but they didn’t _have_ any.” She made a face, half-affronted, half-pouty.

“...Marsh-whats?”

"Marshmallows! They’re puffy and sweet and floaty and my momma always put _so many_ in.”

Nott paused mid-drink. "Your mom made you this?”

"Mhm! Always, when it got really cold, or like after bad dreams.”

"Oh.” Nott turned the still-steaming glass in her hands and didn’t think about shushing or sharp-edged laughter. (Or waking frozen and clammy and—) "That’s nice.”

"It was! It always helped me feel better.”

"I’m glad,” Nott said. Then, tentatively, because she wanted to know and the opening was there and because Jester _probably_ wouldn’t be mad, "Is it, is it helping now?”

"I mean _technically_ I didn’t have a bad dream tonight, technically? But.” She took another sip. "Yeah, it kind of is I think.”

"What sorta dream was it, then?” It must have been some kind of one, if there was something for it to help. And since she’d ordered it special—

"A happy one.” Jester stirred the cocoa with her finger again. "I dreamed I was back home with my momma.”

"Oh.” Nott considered. Remembered the donut-shredding, the still tail, the odd shoulders, the faraway eyes. “...And?”

"And then I woke up.” Another stir. "But! It is okay! It really was a really nice dream, and I got to have cocoa, and share it with you and you don’t think it is _boring_ and you looove it, so!”

Nott laughed. "I do, yes. It’s very sweet,” she chirped, in her best Kiri impression.

Jester laughed, too. "It is!”

Nott went back to her glass. So did Jester.

It really was very sweet. And so warm, and—milk was still boring, absolutely. But she could maybe get used to _this_.

"Thank you,” Nott said, after a while. “For, you know, this.” She lifted the glass. It seemed like maybe it was a little bit important, the cocoa and the, the sharing. But Nott wasn’t sure what to say about that, exactly. (With Caleb, she could just be blunt, but this wasn’t Caleb. This was Jester. The rules were a little different, here. A little more untested.) So she said nothing, only, "It was nice.”

Jester hummed. "Of course! And it helped, right?”

"I.” Nott gripped the glass tight. "I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The room was too drafty, suddenly. The barstool too high. "I didn’t—I just like the drink.”

Jester made a pinched face. "Nott.”

"I wish it had those marsh-thingies, though. They sound really good. Maybe we could go look for some tomorrow, and, and—” Nott broke off.

Jester’s face was still pinched. Her tail drooped.

Nott’s feet itched, dangling so high up. Something crawled between her ribs. “...Yes,” she said quietly. "It. It helped.”

Jester brightened. "Really?” But there was still a little wrinkle between her brows.

"Absolutely!” Nott said, looking anywhere but at her, fingers gone slippery on her glass, smiling. "I, I feel much better!” (It wasn’t a lie. It _had_ helped, she _did_ feel better—or she had, before. Before she’d started thinking about it again. But that wasn’t important. Important was the little wrinkle vanishing, the twitch returning to Jester’s tail, the smile spreading like sunrise across her face.)

"Oh good, I'm glad! Of course, I knew it _all_ the time. Cocoa always makes things better, even when they are already really really good.”

"Of course,” Nott said with a smaller smile, but still twice as many teeth. "Always.” A pause. "And, and they were, you know. Already really good.”

Jester looked at her wide, solemn eyes. "Did you have a happy dream too?”

"I,” Nott said, and thought about blood on Molly’s lips and nowhere else. "Well.” Caleb reflected in pale yellow eyes, brittle fingers gripping callused ones, ink streaks across paper. "No.” A grimy glass in her own unbandaged hands. "Not really.”

A fretful twist to Jester’s lips, but not an ounce of surprise in those eyes, gone a different kind of solemn now, one that made Nott want to throw on about four more layers. "Was it about home?”

Nott turned the glass around and around in her hands. Thought about people, and goblins, and groups, and clans. Taverns, and territories, and talk, and quiet. Thought about hands and teeth, about bandages both on and off. Thought about a steady beat (one-two, one-two).

"It,” she said, and stopped.

Jester waited.

"It,” she said again, mouth dry. (One-two-one-two-one-two-one—) "It was about puddles.” She paused. Lowered her voice, upped the drama. " _Evil_ puddles.”

Jester—wonderful, _amazing_ Jester, second-best detective in the _whole_ world—put away the solemn eyes and gasped instead, oozing the _perfect_ amount of melodrama. "Did they try to _eat you_?”

" _Yes_.” A beat. "Caleb too. _And_ you _and_ the others.”

"That’s _rude_.”

"I know!” Nott downed the rest of the cocoa like a shot, and focused on the sugary warmth on her tongue instead of all her suddenly-shivery-again edges.

"I vote we turn them to ice and eat the puddles _back_.”

"Crunchy,” Nott said, cracking a nervous grin, and trying not to imagine the sickening crunch of frozen goblin bone between her teeth. "I dunno though, they, they were kinda big? I'm not sure we could finish them off.”

"Yeah, and our tongues would all get stuck probably.” Jester grinned. "Maybe we just—we just turn them into ice and draw _dicks_ on them.”

"Yeah!”

"Ooh, ooh!” Jester waved her hands. "No, no, what if—what if instead we _carve_ —”

" _Carve_ dicks on them?”

Jester shook her head, grinning. "Carve them _into_ dicks!”

“...Hell yeah.”

"Okie!” Jester turned her face solemn again. "The pact is _sealed_ ,” she intoned, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

Nott laughed, despite herself, and turned her glass upside down over tongue, trying to shake free just a couple more drops. But no luck, so she made a face and pulled out her flask again.

"A toast!” Jester lifted her glass and clinked it against Nott’s flask. "To victory!”

"And dicks!” Nott chimed in.

" _Dick_ tory!”

They cracked twin grins and drank.

They devolved into idle chatter, after—mostly Jester, between sips, talking about this and that and the cool drawing she made that morning and the look on Beau’s face when that guy tried to flirt with her, Nott, did you _see_?

Nott listened, mostly, and nodded, and drank, and tossed in comments here and there, she'd have to show her that drawing later, no she didn’t see _please_ describe, in _excrutiating_ detail—

And then Jester pulled out her sketchbook.

Nott took another long drink and didn’t think about purple-red ink, or green fingers, or streak marks.

Just watched Jester draw, forming shapes and people and curse words with easy, smooth lines, and lots of colors, switching back and forth between them fluidly and turning the book this way and that and never, not once, smearing so much as a single drop.

And listened, ears drooping, as Jester hummed through her work. Soft notes rose and fell, and a weirdo took shape on the page—recognizable instantly as the one in the corner, who’d fallen asleep over his beer. Jester drew him drooling a small pool over the edge of the table, and added a tiny duck inside it. Then, on the same page, a little ways away, she doodled herself, holding a mug of cocoa the size of her face and handing it to a tiny, sparkle-eyed Nott.

The doodle-Nott was also drooling, but considerably less than the weirdo. Just a little, shining silvery on the corner of her mouth, not a whole duck pond.

Nott smiled. Then squinted.

There, scritched in tiny, by doodle-Jester and doodle-Nott’s feet, in the lightest blue, outlined very faintly in gray—two little ice dicks.

Nott looked away, scuffing her feet. She sort of wanted to grin, and she sort of wanted to eat the paper, and she sort of wanted to put on three more cloaks and a really big hat.

She drank a little more instead. Then, "Hey.”

Jester looked up, pen still in hand. "Mm?”

Nott prodded the empty glass. It budged a little, gleaming in the lamplight. "Thanks again.”

Jester beamed and nodded and bumped her shoulder. Nott rolled boneless with the motion—nearly right off her stool.

Jester caught her before she could tip too far, settled her back. "Oops!”

"Sorry,” Nott said, blinking. "Sorry. Clumsy.” She laughed nervously, scratched the back of her hand. “Um. Thanks?”

Jester poked her on the nose. "Of course. I'm not going to let you just smush yourself on the floor.”

"Well, you could.”

"Nope!” Another poke, this time on the forehead. "Not going to. I don’t want your face to get all smushed. It’s your _face_ ,” she said, as though that meant anything.

"Right,” Nott said. "Well. Okay.” She slid down off her stool, only a tiny bit unsteadily. "I’m. Gonna go to bed now.”

"Okie! I should too probably,” Jester said, packing up her stuff and hopping off the stool. (Rather impressively fluidly, Nott thought, considering she’d been sitting cross-legged on it three seconds before.) "C’mon, let’s go.”

Nott tried to trail behind her to the stairs and up them, but wound up at her side instead. (Jester was walking so _slow,_ especially for a big person, and _especially_ for a Jester. Maybe the happy-not-happy dream was still getting to her…? Nott should do something about that, probably.)

But before she could, they were in the hallway again, standing between their respective doors, so Nott settled for bumping Jester’s side with her shoulder. Before she could add any parting words and shuffle off, though, Jester stretched an arm out and gave her a sideways squeeze.

Nott froze. Wh—?

"Goodnight, Nott.” The smile in her voice was audible.

Oh.

Nott tried to squeeze back. A little tricky, without a stool, and without Jester picking her up or sitting down like Caleb always did, but—

Jester crouched down a little and shifted, pulling Nott into a closer hug, less sideways. After a still, uncertain beat, Nott slid her other arm round her as far as it would go (which wasn't very far) and squeezed.

They stood there a moment, Nott a little stretched, Jester a bit stooped, and maybe it should’ve been a bit awkward, or at least a little silly, but mostly it was just—warm. (And quiet. So quiet Nott could hear the even, steady rush of Jester’s breath, in-out, in-out.)

And then they pulled away.

"Goodnight,” Nott said, belatedly.

Jester’s eyes went crinkly. "Sweet dreams.”

Nott thought of half-shredded donuts and faraway eyes said, "Yeah, you too.”

And off they went, through their respective doors.

Nott waited for the click across the hall after she closed hers, and then tiptoed over to the bed and peered over the edge of the mattress at Caleb. Found him as she left him, half-curled around nothing, still breathing slow and even.

She nodded to herself. (Good. Good.)

Then she climbed up and burrowed back in the empty space, pressing her forehead to his chest, feeling its rise and fall against her skin and the rush of his breath on the top of her head.

And she thought of paralysis, and shuffling feet—of grimy glasses and steaming ones—smeared ink and tiny ice dicks—ringing silence and humming.

And steady beats. (One-two, one-two, in-out, in-out.)

And she drifted. (One-two, in-out, one-two....)

And slept.

And dreamed of marshmallows.


End file.
